Office workers used desk blotters like this one to soak up ink after they had written or signed documents with an ink pen. The back was absorbent peper, and the top surface was often used to promote local companies, as you can see here. Perhaps a golfer can explain the joke here?
Dear Vance: I live in an older home in Midtown, and when [workers] were replacing my furnace, they found a tattered paper tag that said, “Inspected by Mee Plumbing.” That’s certainly an unusual name for a person, or a company, isn’t it?
Dear J.F.: It’s a shame you didn’t think to photograph this artifact, or send me the original to add to my nice collection of plumbing inspection tags. Since you didn’t, and I had nothing visually dramatic to share with my half-dozen readers, I was inclined to respond to your question by simply saying, “Yes, J.F., it certainly is an unusual name.”
But then I thought, perhaps I can find more about this company — not just to entertain readers, but also since I am paid by the word — and not paid very much, at that. [Vance — another talk, please — Ed.] So last night I huffed and puffed and pulled myself from the La-Z-Boy and ventured into the world-famous Lauderdale Library, Archives, and Sno-Cone Parlor (closed for the season), where I found a pleasant surprise. There, on Floor 3, Corridor 12, Row 18, Shelf 15, Box 78, I pulled out a dusty container labeled “Mee Plumbing Company / Mee Family.” And what I found inside was enough to fill a column, and then it’s back to the La-Z-Boy.
It seems that Mee is an Irish name, and in the late 1800s, Annie O’Connor married Michael Mee in that lovely country and then journeyed across the Atlantic and took up residence in Holly Springs, Mississippi. I can’t tell you what they did when they got there; I don’t have full access to all the Holly Springs records, though I’m working on it.
The Mees soon became parents to a daughter and three sons: Frank (born in 1878), John (1879), Sylvester (1882), and Mary (1883). Around 1895, Annie brought her children to Memphis. Their father had apparently passed away, because she is identified in the old city directories in their terse way as “wid, Michael.” The family took up residence at 700 Wright in South Memphis, later moving to 223 Hernando. After their mother passed away in 1926, the siblings moved together into a house at 539 Vance.
So what someone might have thought was an unusual name worked out very well as a company slogan, and “Let MEE Do It” began to appear on all of Sylvester’s advertisements and promotional items, like the desk blotter shown here.
Now it seems to me that the three brothers would’ve gone to work for the same company, or even start a business on their own, but instead they set out in different directions, at first doing various unskilled-labor jobs. Sister Mary stayed home and somehow kept the house for the whole family, so she probably had the hardest task of all.
Now look, I can’t spend much time describing the various convoluted career paths of the entire Mee family. So let me just zoom ahead and say that they eventually landed dependable, well-paying jobs in Memphis over the years.
photograph courtesy frisco railroad
The Sunnyland, as the train was called, was part of the Frisco Railroad, a vast nationwide network, and made regular stops in Memphis.
John, especially, became the “star” of the family — and the envy of anyone who loved railroading. He first worked for several lines here, as an oiler and later a fireman (he didn’t put out fires; he made them by shoveling coal into the mighty boiler of the locomotive). In the 1920s, he landed a rather coveted position as an engineer driving the Sunnyland for the Frisco Railroad, a nationwide rail network despite the San Francisco name. The Sunnyland was a popular passenger train that linked the Midwest and Florida, with a stopover in Memphis, and in those days, anyone who piloted these massive, roaring, smoke-belching steam engines was admired as if they were astronauts or fighter pilots today.
Frank Mee was the manager of the Billiard Room, one of the many amenities inside the Catholic Club in the early 1900s. The building stood at Third and Adams.
Frank chose a somewhat quieter career, serving as the longtime manager of the Catholic Club Billiard Room, located downtown at Third and Adams and described in ads as “one of the best-equipped club buildings in the South, with every modern convenience.”
Sylvester — who apparently preferred to go by “S.L.” in all of his business dealings — obviously preferred something more “hands-on.” He took a job with E.L. Rawlings, a local plumbing company, and later moved to another firm, where he worked until 1926, when he struck out on his own. I know this because friendly ads in The Commercial Appeal explained his new situation: “Dear Folks: In case you shouldn’t know it already, I have withdrawn from the firm of Mee & Heisler and now it’s just ‘MEE.’ I expect to renew your acquaintance at my new space at 238 Vance Avenue, Phone 6-2561. If it’s plumbing service you want, you’ll be satisfied if you’ll just let MEE do it.”
So what someone might have thought was an unusual name worked out very well as a company slogan, and “Let MEE Do It” began to appear on all of Sylvester’s advertisements and promotional items, like the desk blotter shown here. “We make a specialty of repair work — and employ expert mechanics,” one ad announced, showing a plumber (perhaps Sylvester himself) installing a new sink, while the homeowner looks on with approval.
In 1937, he moved up in the world, when he became the Shelby County plumbing inspector. That meant he checked out the various pipes and fittings, and then made someone else do the nasty work. So he visited your home, J.F., and apparently thought everything was fine.
At some point, of course, all the members of this industrious family passed away. Mary was the first, succumbing to heart disease in 1931; she was only 48. Sylvester was next, dying in 1943, and his brother, Frank, joined him barely six months later that same year. John outlived them all, passing away in 1957. The siblings, along with their mother, are buried together at Calvary Cemetery, and one obituary noted that all were devoted members of St. Patrick’s Catholic Church.
The Mees come across as a decent, hardworking family, which always makes it more difficult for me. They didn’t do anything illegal, they didn’t mingle with high society, they never married, they didn’t join social clubs. In short, they never (or rarely) did anything that got their name in the papers, or — even better — encouraged reporters to take their photos, which I could share with you here and add them to the “Mee Family Collection” in the Mansion.
Well — everyone except Frank. He made the newspapers for the most unusual reasons. In 1921, for instance, a tiny story mentioned that he was in charge of the annual chicken fry for employees of the N.C. & St. L. Railroad. That’s all it said about him.
In 1936, the newspaper reported that “Frank Mee slipped and fractured his left wrist while crossing the street last Friday on his way uptown.” That’s right. A broken wrist made the news in 1936.
There’s more. Six months later, in a list of brief news items, it seems that “Frank Mee has left the hospital but is still confined to his home.” Surely not for the broken wrist!
Then, in 1943, The Commercial Appeal announced, “Frank Mee, the Catholic Club’s poolroom manager, has been granted a month’s leave of absence to rebuild his health. He will be glad to see his friends at home.” No details at all.
But I’ve saved my favorite Frank Mee “non-story” for last, even though it took place years earlier. On June 13, 1913, The Commercial Appeal carried this bold headline: HIGHWAYMEN ROB VICTIM OF HIS COAT.” A subhead declared: “Frank Mee Has Sensational, If Not Thrilling, Experience.”
It must have been a slow news day, because the newspaper devoted half a column to a story about how two fellows armed with pistols accosted Frank on the street one evening, but since he carried no money, they took his coat instead. That’s right, his coat. “All Mee lost, according to his statement, was the coat of a $40 suit, and a lot of perspiration which his hasty departure from the scene rendered very copious.”
Frank Mee seems to have been the unlucky member of this family. You’re fortunate, J.F., that he wasn’t the one who inspected your house.
Got a question for Vance?
Email: askvance@contemporary-media.com
Mail: Vance Lauderdale, Memphis Magazine, P.O. Box 1738, Memphis, TN 38103
